


Golden Hearted Murderer

by aroray



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: FUCK, FUCK YOU, Gen, M/M, fuck you kat, you - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-19 06:20:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7348579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aroray/pseuds/aroray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fakehaus had to start somewhere. Didn't start anywhere glamorous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Golden Hearted Murderer

**Author's Note:**

> fuck you kat

You could point out a thousand starts for this to anyone who asked, but you’ve always- privately, quietly, in your own heart- known where it was. Where the breaking point was: in your falling-apart, tiny apartment, with the overblown rent late, the phone bill due, your incredible variety of medical expenses spread out across the kitchen counter and you sat in front of them, crying helplessly, and Bruce stood at your shoulder and said to you, “Adam, fuck this.”

That’s where it really was.

And you used the last twenty dollars in your wallet to buy realistic toy guns and watery black paint and you remember in vivid detail the yellow light of the apartment washing him out pale and making his trembling hands look jaundiced as he pulled on the mask.

It’s a long and silent drive across town to a 7-11 you’ve never seen. You think about roadtrips you used to dream of taking, about the streetlights flashing past, about anything but his white knuckles on the steering wheel and the knife in your back pocket just in case. When he parks the car it takes him a little too long to open the door. Maybe, like you, he took a moment to pray.

You remember, and marvel at now, your unbelievable luck. The guns didn’t look real in the least but they netted you three hundred dollars. You remember the way his hands shook, and the clerk’s hands shook, and his voice shook as he shouted, and how for once in your life you were steady to the bone. For once in your life your body didn’t really matter. You don’t need to be strong to hold a gun to somebody’s head. You don’t need to be fast to jog with a plastic bag of twenties to the car. You don’t need to be painless to yell “I’LL PULL THIS TRIGGER, SEE IF I DON’T.”

After that, you move from the bad side of town to the worse side of town and never do pay the rent or the bills.

It turns out to make a pretty decent living, robbery, because in this town money flows like blood through everything. It flows through your hands just as fast- into rent, into bills, into medication, into physical therapy, into your surgery fund- but you’re no longer stagnant and definitely not on the same downward slope. Your scars get the chance to fade, to turn from red to pink to silver, at last. He gets a pair of old handguns with a tendency to jam for seventy bucks from the neighbors and two memberships to a range. There are some nights you lie awake, sure, but it’s never guilt; just the same old pain it’s always been. You two don’t get caught because the police have bigger problems than a string of amateur convenience store hold-ups. Like murder.

Then you are the bigger problems. Like murder.

It’s stupid- it never should have happened. But it did. The usual routine, the late-night drive and the radio off and his hands still shake, every time, but these days it’s adrenaline instead of nerves- except this time the clerk is crying then panicking then running and you could have shot at his feet. You know you could have shot at his feet and scared him into cooperation.

You shot him in the forehead, loaded up the money, and ran.

And the real kicker, what actually gets you, is you didn’t feel anything. Not a damn thing. Vague annoyance, maybe, in the moment. It’s what has you hyperventilating in the shower later, him sitting on the toilet lid in quiet witness. “He had a family,” you tell him, and he agrees. “I killed him,” you tell him, and he agrees. “I didn’t feel anything,” you tell him, and he says it’s fine. He says it’s fine, it happens. It doesn’t happen, not really, it’s literally murder, you’re a murderer- but you let it soothe you.

This was never supposed to last forever, this life. You were supposed to recover, get your surgery, your partner in crime would get a job, and you’d put this behind you. Bury the guns in the yard, instead of burying somebody’s child like this.

But it’s done.

And it occurs to you, months later, as you use your surgery fund to pay the rent yet again, that killer for hire probably pays better than petty thief.

The next time you hold up a store, you pull the trigger before the clerk runs.

More than a few sins later, you find a note with a number in your pocket that reads "IF YOU EVER WANT TO MAKE A CAREER OF IT" in blocky, all-caps handwriting. A phone number in disconcertingly sweet cursive numbers.

You call that night.


End file.
